


Leviosa

by runningondreams



Series: Leviosa-verse [2]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Allusions to PTSD, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Arguments, Colonial America, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gryffindor!Steve, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracies, M/M, Making Up, Slytherin!Tony, Tony Feels, Various Marvel Cameos, author takes liberties with magical worldbuilding, but mostly Steve and Tony, mentions of imprisonments, mentions of witch trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark and Steve Rogers attempt to found a School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the American Colonies. The rest of the staff just tries to stay out of the way of the flirting and arguments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leviosa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarisa/gifts).



> Written for the 2014 Cap-Iron Man Gift Exchange for sarisa. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thanks to my beta  iloome for all the support and cheerleading, the lightning-fast turn-around, and for poking me with a stick about the founders thing.

“We got another rejection.”

Tony sighs and takes the parchment from Jan's fingers. Hank McCoy, has to be. He'd shown such promise too. The interview had gone wonderfully. 

“Hogwarts?” he asks, resigned, “or even further afield?”

“Worse,” Jan says, chipper as she perches on a trunk of books Tony still hasn't managed to unpack, “Xavier's.”

“Oh, blazes take them,” Tony gripes. What in God's name is Xavier offering that Tony isn't?

Stability, probably. A focus on post-graduate students instead of more basic education. A more established location, removed from muggle habitations instead of skirting the edge of a settlement. 

Damn him.

“I hope you're not using that language in the classroom,” Steve says mildly from his chair by the fireplace. 

“The students say far worse things, I assure you,” Tony tells him. 

“If you're setting a poor standard—”

“My _standards_ are fine, oh great Auror—”

“ _Boys_ ,” Jan scolds, and Tony falls into grudging silence. Steve goes back to his sketchbook. Tony can't even protest it. Steve's art is always for the school these days. Portal guardians and protection spells and watchful messengers who can retrieve a staff member if the students start trying to duel in the halls.

Sometimes Tony misses the days when he tried to steal Steve's doodles during class without getting hexed. His life has gotten infinitely more complicated since then.

“Who's next?” Bruce asks. Tony's pretty sure he's using the meeting time to do his lesson plans. He wishes he could get away with that, or beg off entirely on the grounds of yearly restocking duties like Hank, but no. As co-chair of the little circus they're pretending is actually a school, he has to at least look like he's paying attention.

“It's Richards, but he won't come,” Tony crosses his name out with a slight pang. It would've been nice to have someone else with some experience in actual ward-crafting, but it can't be helped. Reed's got his hands full with his family and whatever's going on between him and Victor these days.

“After that is Wilson.”

“Sam Wilson?” Jan asks, and Tony hums confirmation. 

“I'll extend an invitation tomorrow,” Jan says, making a note. “Have you two decided on your assistants for this year?” she asks, looking between him and Steve.

“Danvers,” Tony says. 

“You're not taking Danvers,” Steve tells him. “Her OWLs show Defense is her strongest subject.”

Tony glares at him over his quill.

“I thought we agreed to use the new tests,” he says. The ones they'd designed around something _other_ than how well a witch or wizard would integrate into British Wizarding society. Like skills magic-users actually _needed_ in the Colonies.

“Danvers spent 5 years at Hogwarts, the OWLs are more relevant,” Steve points out. He's infuriatingly unconcerned. 

“Her adaptability and eye for—”

“You know she wants to do post-graduate studies in Defense,” Steve interrupts, implacable. 

"Fine," Tony bites out. "I'm taking Parker then."

"He's only a 5th year," Bruce points out. He doesn't even look up from his papers. "He's not eligible."

" _Yes,_ well, since he's ambitious and _really bloody talented,_ I'm going to make an exception. Which I am perfectly entitled to do," Tony says.

"Young Peter is adept in many subjects and manages his work admirably despite his several commitments," Thor intones at Tony's shoulder, making him jump. "I second Anthony's motion."

"You're very late," Jan says, but there's no rancor in her voice, "and yes, motion passes, please stop looking around as if we're thieves come to steal from your hoard, Tony; you can have Parker, Steve can have Danvers."

"Good," Tony says. "Was there anything else, or can I go fix the hole Thor blasted through the wards yesterday?"

Thor looks sheepish. “My deepest apologies—” he starts, but Tony waves him off. The south edge needed to be re-vamped anyway, if they're going to expand the grounds in the spring. It's only the timing he's irritated by.

“My lady Van Dyne?” he asks, and she sighs. 

“Go, we can continue without you,” she says. 

“Thank you,” he says, and bows out of the room.

* * *

The wards are shredded even worse than when he'd first checked the damage, but he probably should have expected that, really. Maybe next time he'll remember that his knowledge of ley lines is next to useless on this side of the ocean and set up a stasis field to keep out the unpredictable gusts of magic in this place. 

There's only so much light left in the day, and this really needs to be done before moonrise. He raises his wand and cuts out the broken pieces of the spell. He'll need to anchor the patch into the bedrock, then re-weave the protections and illusions, layer by layer. 

He pulls off his shoes, curls his toes in the dust and sets to work.

Of course, Steve can't ever just leave a thing alone, so he's only able to work in peace for three quarters of an hour before the man starts hovering on the edge of the perimeter, looking pensive.

“Something I can do for you, Rogers?” he asks, giving up on trying to meld wand-work with the pull of the tide and the shift of the earth. He reaches out with both hands and twists the spell into place. 

“We need more native teachers,” Steve says, watching him. 

“There's Bruce,” Tony says, but he's not arguing. Most of his own wandless magic is woefully brute-force after nearly 10 years of training with a wand and another 2 of exclusively wand practice, and he can't do half the things most of the students seem to do with barely a thought.

“Bruce isn't native he's just—” _an Algonquian-pack werewolf_ , Tony thinks _—_ “Locally trained,” Steve says. He looks displeased, squinting at the horizon. 

“If we didn't have the wards—” he starts and no, Tony is not debating that again.

“We're keeping the wards; they're the only reason the wizarding families let their children attend.”

Steve spreads his hands. 

“I'm fully aware of that,” he says, “Just as you're aware that no Lenape shaman will consent to stay in a place with so much British magic set so deep in the stone.”

Because the tenuous bonds of trust they've managed to extend to the local tribe are getting brittle, especially with the recent bout of colonist-borne illnesses. Tony shakes his head. It's Jan and Thor and Bruce's area of expertise. Perhaps one day they'll find a solution to the uncomfortable dance they're doing on the edge to two societies, but it's probably not going to happen today.

“Why are you here?” he asks, hooking his fingers into one side of the patch and the matching side of the tear.

“Just checking in. We'll want to get on the way before midnight. You sure you'll be able to fly after this?”

“Are you questioning my stamina, Rogers?” Tony scoffs. Steve doesn't quite manage to maintain his innocent expression, just a hint of humor showing through and—and Tony loses hold of the spell.

“Oh, Godric's _bollocks_ ,” he curses.

Steve wrinkles his nose.

“Why is it that you always malign _my_ House's founder when you're feeling tetchy?” he asks. “There are three others. And you never hear me going off about Salazar.”

“As if I would be so crass as to take my own House founder's name in vain.” Tony huffs. “Besides, Godric can take the hit to his reputation, he had buckets of it,” he waves dismissively. “Helga would just be playing dirty and Rowena is a lady beyond reproof, as you well know, and I'm quite certain you would stun me into the dirt if you ever heard me misuse her name.”

He considers that for a moment. 

“Which would be the correct action,” he admits, “because I would probably not be in my right mind.”

The wards are still in front of him. A tangled mess. He sighs and tries to roll out the crick in his neck.

“I need to finish this,” he says.

“Jan said she'd save you some supper if you wanted,” Steve tells him.

“Give her my thanks,” Tony says, reaching back into the spells. He might not be very hungry by the time he makes it back inside the walls, but he'll need the energy.

When he finishes the first side and looks up before starting on the other, Steve is long gone.

* * *

He's in a foul mood when he does stomp back through the gates. The sun is just setting, stars peeking through the curtain of dark violet that's lowering over the sky. The muggle repelling charms never seem to want want to braid in with the illusions, and no amount of pouring over his notes from the Hogwarts records has helped him figure out how to fix that. He's beginning to think it's a lost cause—keeping European wards steady in this place is just a fruitless endeavor. He needs to try another angle.

He stalks past Bruce in the hall, ignoring his curious gaze, and dodges around a few of the younger students who are full-time boarders.

Barton looks like he wants to say something, but he snaps his mouth shut pretty quickly when he actually gets a look at Tony face.

He'll feel bad about that later, probably. But for the moment he needs food and sleep in that order, and he only has a few hours for both. He takes the stairs to the kitchens two at a time.

A spell snaps across his nose as he steps back into the hall and he whirls around, raises his hands and blasts two wandless stunning spells at Steve, but of course, Steve is ready (he's _always ready_ , but that's more reassuring than annoying these days, much as he hates to admit it), and the spells splash harmlessly off his _protego_ shield.

“Sloppy,” Steve comments.

Tony glowers at him.

“You're the one slinging jinxes in the hallway,” 

“I knew it was you,” Steve says. “ _And_ I used my wand.”

“Do not push me right now Rogers,” Tony says, reaching for his wand. He could do with a duel, really. “I am about one hair away from leaving you here and wringing that blasted preacher's neck.”

Steve lowers his wand and Tony curses his tiredness and frayed nerves. He shouldn't have said that. He should've just asked where Steve was keeping his food.

“Is that what's got you so bearish?” Steve asks. He steps closer. “The trial?”

Tony shoots him a look, and Steve waves a translucent map of the school into the space between them. No students on this floor or near the approaching stairs. Fine. He should probably get this out of his system before anyone's life is depending on him. Tony slips his wand back into his sleeve and sags against the wall. 

“She's only 18,” he mutters. “Not a drop of magical blood in her body. Just a quick mind and a sharp tongue.”

Steve presses his lips thin, crows feet deepening at the edges of his eyes.

“We'll get her out,” he says.

“That's not _good enough!_ ” Tony yells, pushing away from the wall. “We used to be _heroes_. We used to be invited to every foundation ceremony and harvest festival, we used to _heal_ and _build_ and _lead_. And now we can't even _mention_ magicwithoutsome jumped-up pastor turning his flock on us like _helping the lame walk_ is the same as drinking human blood and praying to Lucifer.” 

He sends another stunning blast at the wall and a vase shatters, water splashing down the paneling and a little bundle of yarrow blooms falling to the floor with a dull _whump_ and a flutter of tiny petals.

Steve casts _reparo_ without commenting, and Tony tries not to let that annoy him. 

“We shouldn't have to _do this_ ,” he continues, and his throat is sore and his voice is scratchy. “I'm spending all my time on things to keep muggles out and keep the students _safe_ and all they're learning is that they're different and strange and have to hide who they are.”

“You know I agree with you,” Steve says, stepping closer. 

“I know,” Tony sighs. “I just—wasn't expecting the trials to come here. Not like this.” Not so frequently. Not before they got a better network in place. Not before they could start doing more about it.

Steve squeezes his shoulder.

“I want you to envision a moment,” he starts, and Tony groans.

“Oh Merlin, don't—”

“A moment when you can leave these grounds and step into the sunlight with your own face and not worry that the thing that comes to you like breathing will endanger someone you don't even know—”

“Steve,” Tony protests, and he stops.

“You're the one who convinced me it was a future worth waiting for,” he says instead.

Tony closes his eyes and leans into him. He's warm and solid and his coat smells of leather and wool and the tang of spellwork on linen. It's more comforting than it should be. 

Tony shouldn't be so damn _homesick_ for a place that's stuck a good century in the past, but at least Hogwarts was _safe._ He could go out for a day in Hogsmeade and never even encounter a muggle, never have to even think about whether someone was going to accuse him of devil worship and chase him down with a pitchfork and try to hang him or set him on fire. And even if his magic wasn't actually meant to be channeled through a wand, he'd been good at the latin-based spellwork. After first year he almost hadn't noticed the strangeness of it anymore. 

Practically everything he does these days feels harder than it should.

Steve's arm hooks around his shoulders and pulls him closer.

“We'll get there,” he murmurs.

Tony's not sure he can see it. Not for years and years, anyway, not until they have enough graduates to spread their little enclave of magic far beyond the actual grounds of the school. 

But Steve's always been better at reaching for his ideals when Tony gets lost in the details.

“Come on,” Steve says. “You need food and sleep if you're going to be of any use tonight.”

“Dashing heroes,” Tony says tiredly, still leaning into Steve, “sweeping to the rescue.”

Steve huffs a laugh into his hair and pushes him upright.

“Come on,” he says again, and starts leading the way to Tony's rooms.

“I was getting food,” Tony protests, but Steve takes his arm and pulls him along.

“It's under a warming charm in your rooms,” Steve tells him.

Tony grumbles about people breaking his locking charms, but it's mostly show. He doesn't really mind. It's not like he's never broken into Steve's room, after all. And they're probably not broken, anyway. Steve's very considerate about that. He just uses the massive lexicon of Auror-training spells in his head to quietly unlock things. 

And then leaves them that way, just to be annoying.

It's ridiculous, Tony decides as Steve guides him through his own door and into his own chair. The things he puts up with for this man are truly ridiculous. 

The food is, indeed still warm, and Steve sits with him while he picks at it, and makes him drink the vile-tasting restorative potion Hank sent down for him, and hangs up Tony's probably too-Gryffindorish red coat. 

“Sleep,” he says. “I'll see you in a few hours.”

 _I should've asked what was in the potion_ , Tony thinks, but his eyes are sliding shut of their own accord.

* * *

They meet outside the gates at the edge of the wards, just as the moon inches above the roof line of the mansion-turned-school. Steve's in the same blue coat and red breeches he was wearing all day, and Tony wonders if _he_ got any sleep. 

Auror training, probably. There are days he's intensely jealous of it. But if he'd spent his time on that he wouldn't have had the requisite knowledge of spell-crafting to try founding a school in the first place, so maybe it all works out in the end.

As he gets closer he notes the a cloak and a rucksack slung over Steve's shoulder.

The cloak is an intelligent addition for a midnight-seaside flight. The rucksack is a new development for a trip like this. He points at it.

“I thought this was a snag and drop job?” he questions.

Steve hesitates and—no. That little sigh and tilt of his head never leads anywhere Tony wants to go. 

“Jan's found us some new students.”

Because getting _one_ potential new resident back to the mansion wasn't going to be enough of a headache. 

“How old are they?” he asks.

“Six.”

“What, all of them? How many are there?” He's never tried apparating more than three people. This could get tricky. 

“It's twins.” Steve smiles tightly. “Their mother's concerned she won't be able to hide their gifts much longer. Their father's missing at sea.”

Considering Steve's own rather checkered history before he boarded the ship to Hogwarts, Tony isn't surprised he wants to pick these children up as soon as possible. There's no well-established network of magical guardians to take in unwanted magical toddlers here.

There's just them. So far.

Still. He's really looking forward to letting someone else take over the education of pre-adolescents. Twelve years inside the same walls continuously is too long.

“Right,” He sighs. “Not far out of the way, are they?”

“Just a few miles west on the return trip,” Steve says, smiling at him. Which means they'll have to either move this Miss Maria Hill that distance or get her back to Jan or Fury first. 

“Fine.” Tony holds out his hand. “Let's go.”

Steve takes his arm with a grin, and Tony carries them both into the sky.

It's one of the the things he really does love about moving back to the Americas. Flying under his own power, flying without a broom, is everything he ever dreamed of when he first discovered his magic. No incantations, no rote-learned movements, but instinct and joy and power thrumming through his veins.

Bruce has told him that some of the local shamans can do it, and it seems common among the students born here. No one seems to be able to tell him why crossing the Atlantic would make such a difference.

There are days Tony can't believe he ever gave this up, even if he didn't really know what he was losing when his mother packed him off to Scotland with a family wand and three spellbooks to his name.

He hears Steve cast another warming charm on himself, then feels him grip his coat a bit tighter as they sweep over the moonlit landscape.

“Can we get a bit further from the ocean?” he asks.

“I need to be able to see the coastline,” Tony tells him. The locater charm Bruce had linked to the accused girl's aura was strong, but it didn't account for things like towns and forests and the comfort of the user. They had to follow the flow of the spell, and that meant natural intersections of power.

“Sometimes I think you go out of your way to make me cold,” Steve says, and okay, his teeth _are_ chattering a little. Tony veers away from the spray a bit more.

“Is this you still being sore about me stealing your scarf in third year?” he asks.

He can't see Steve's scowl, but he's pretty sure of the expression.

“It was bloody freezing and you _set it on fire,_ ” Steve says, and Tony smiles to himself. Maybe arguing will warm them up.

“It was terrible,” he retorts, “And I did replace it.”

“It wasn't terrible,” Steve insists.

“It was ragged and stringy and made you look like a pillock.” 

“Like the beard you tried to grow in fifth year?” Steve asks, and oh, that was low. 

“Do not tempt me to drop you Rogers, I might not catch you again,” Tony snipes. There's a port town coming up, the lighthouse glow getting closer. Steve wraps them in illusion and mist before Tony can ask. 

“Then you'd have to manage a muggle and two under-sevens by yourself,” Steve says, which is just unfair. 

“That was almost _sneaky_ ,” Tony says, trying to keep his voice from carrying too far over the water. “Sneaky and _sly_. I thought that was against the Gryffindor code of conduct. Sneaky slyness is for Slytherins only.”

Steve shifts in his hold. His nose presses cold against Tony's temple. 

“Maybe you're rubbing off on me,” he says, and Tony can almost feel his lips moving. It sends a shiver down his spine, and for a moment he thinks he really will drop Steve, lose the spell entirely and just plunge them both into the water.

“You really shouldn't do that,” he says, voice tight, and Steve just laughs, warm huffs of breath against Tony's face.

“I know you won't drop me, Tony,” he says, just a little further away this time. 

Tony's ignoring the warm curl of pleasure in his chest and is about to tell Steve that he absolutely _will_ drop him, quite deliberately, when the spell-flow shifts, the trail leading further out into the ocean.

His stomach sinks, nausea rising in his throat.

“Tony?” Steve asks as he changes his course, taking them out to sea. 

“ I think she's in the water,” Tony tells him. 

“Oh, _no_ ,” Steve breathes. 

Tony pushes more power into their flight and prays. 

* * *

It's not as bad as he feared, but it's not pleasant either. 

It seems the local parish has decided the best way to keep a witch from escaping before her trial is to chain her to a raft tethered just off the community dock. It wouldn't do anything for a real, trained magic-user but for a child, or for someone without magic, it's plenty. 

Miss Hill actually snarls at them when Tony sets down. She's soaked to the skin and shivering, her hair limp in her face and her skirts clinging heavily. The cuffs have rubbed her wrists and the backs of her hands raw. 

“Miss Hill,” Steve holds up his hand, calming. “We're here to help you.”

“I don't need help from devil-worshipers,” she hisses.

“I can assure you with absolute certainty that we don't worship the devil,” Tony tells her. “And we know that you're not a witch.” For once, he wishes for a little shack on the edge of village, or a barn loft. At least then they can simply pose as concerned citizens, convinced of the accused's innocence. 

No chance of that here. They've already shown their hand.

“We're here to free you, Steve's saying, stepping forward cautiously. “We can get you to safety, you can start over. A new life, without this mess.”

“I don't believe you,” she says, but her eyes are calculating, not wide and terrified. She's still thinking, despite the chains and then cold wet night and the sudden appearance of two strange men out of the sky. 

She must be terrifying, well-rested and dry and on land. 

“I'm going to release your chains,” Steve says, his voice low and soothing, the one he uses when the younger children have gotten themselves into a scrape and don't know how to undo their accidental magic.

He pulls out his wand and shows it to her, then flicks it quickly, muttering the incantation under his breath.

The cuffs drop with a thunk, and for a moment Tony thinks she's fainting, but no. That's a charge, clumsy with cold and hampered by her skirts as she is, and there's moonlight glinting off something in her hand.

“ _Somnus_ ,” Tony says, flicking his own wand, and Steve catches her as she falls. 

A small knife skitters across the rough-sawn boards. Tony picks it up and shows it to Steve.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then sighs and shakes his head. 

“I'll take her to Fury,” he says. “Maybe he can figure out something for her.”

“Probably for the best,” Tony agrees. He rubs his hand over his face. “She's seen our faces. She knows it's real now.”

They should probably obliviate her, but with the strain she's already under there's no certainty of what else the spell might do to her mind. They'd have to wake her up again too.

Steve arches an eyebrow at him.

“We can include her in the Fidelius,” he offers, and Tony winces. Between these twins and their mother they'll already be adding three new people to the charm before noon tomorrow as it is, and it's not an easy spell to carry.

“No,” he decides, reluctant. “If Fury needs additional help, he knows how to contact us.”

Steve nods and scoops the sleeping Miss Hill up in his arms.

“I'll be right back,” he says.

“Be safe,” Tony orders, and Steve smiles. 

The pop of his apparition isn't loud enough to be heard beyond the dock. 

Tony turns his attention to the raft and the cuffs and the tiny bodice knife. 

This isn't even a holding cell. This is a sentence without trial.

He centers himself and tries to remember the incantation for a spell he hasn't used since he finished his graduate studies. 

_Priori Specto_ , yes? Yes. With the widdershins swish, twirl, stop.

He opens his eyes. 

The confrontation he was just party to plays out in reverse. Steve appears, Miss Hill rises, stumbles backward, is in chains again. He and Steve lift off the raft. Miss Hill huddles against the post she was chained to, watching the sea as they get further and further away.

She stands, she rages, the moon skates back across the sky. The sun rises from the West and she's mostly dry, her hair still mostly pinned up. A crowd drifts backwards over the dock, and a tall man in a preacher's collar pulls the chains away from the post and drags the girl roughly off the raft. 

Tony knows his face. He doesn't need to see any more. It seems Preacher Osborn didn't get the message the last time Tony's people found him persecuting innocents who couldn't fight back.

He's putting the finishing touches on his trap when Steve reappears, Miss Hill thankfully absent this time.

“Is that a horn-tongue jinx?” he asks, frowning.

“Bat Bogey Hex, among others” Tony corrects absently. “I considered adding a blasting curse, but some of the villagers might actually be innocent.”

Steve reaches for his wand.

“Tony, you can't—”

“It's Osborn,” Tony tells him, the words clipped on his tongue. “Again.”

Steve falls silent. 

“I thought Jan obliviated him, after Peter,” he says finally. 

“Well apparently obiliviation doesn't cure you of being a _bloody-minded sadist_ ,” Tony snarls, and Steve grabs his shoulder and spins him away from the cuffs.

“If you kill him, you're no better than he is,” he says, stern. 

“I'm not going to kill him,” Tony says. “I'm going to give him a taste of his own medicine. Let's see how long he can keep from being hanged by his own flock—”

“Tony.” Steve squeezes his shoulders. “You don't even know that he'll be the first to touch the spells.”

“There's a recognition charm—” 

Steve shakes him, then, one sharp jolt.

“ _This isn't the way_ ,” he growls. 

And Tony feels some nebulous thread of control he had snap and he's hissing back _get your hands off me_ before he thinks. 

Steve stares at him, wide-eyed. Tony glares at him until he lets go and steps back. 

“I'm sorry,” he says, hands falling to his sides. 

“Are you?” Tony asks. He feels cold all over, the wind cutting through his layers and charms like there's nothing there.

“ _Yes,_ ” Steve says, fierce. 

Tony stares past him, biting back all the cutting insults and disparaging comments on Gryffindor failings he's been practicing not saying for _years_ now. 

He sees the moment the fight drains out of Steve, his shoulders slumping and his face falling. Ten years ago he would've used that moment to strike, to make Steve _hurt_. Six years ago he would've jabbed him in the ribs with his wand and cast one of the more harmless and juvenile charms he knew, just to watch him get angry again. But that was before the mob of muggles and the fire in Genoa, before he found himself running back to England and trying to do something new with his life, before he came back to the land he was born to and met Jan and Hank and Thor and thought _who do I know who could protect a secret like this_.

But even though it's been three years since Steve started spending more time in Tony's bed than his own, Tony's still not ready to lean in when Steve reaches for him. 

He turns back to the cuffs so he won't have to watch Steve's expression change. 

But Steve's right, of course. This isn't the way. That's what's so infuriating about the man. He's always _right_.

“Damn you, Rogers,” he whispers, and strips the spell-chain of jinxes and hexes off the metal with one angry motion. 

The little ball of pain and hate gleams malevolently in the air for a moment before he dispells it. Then he melts the cuffs for good measure. At least it'll be one fewer pair in existence.

When he turns back around Steve's standing at the edge of the raft, head bowed, perfectly still. 

“Come on,” Tony says, extending his arm. “We need to pick up those students you mentioned before dawn, don't we?”

Steve lifts his head and Tony tries to ignore the donkey-kick punch of regret and pain in his expression. It's not going to get them anywhere. He doesn't want to talk about it now.

He waves his hand, and after a moment Steve steps forward and slides under his arm, holding on like he thinks he can fix things if he can just get close enough.

Or maybe he thinks Tony _will_ drop him, now. 

The flight back along their path is very quiet. After a few miles Steve risks pulling out one of the little compasses Tony and Jan designed for tracking down magically talented children without the benefit of the British Ministry's resources. 

He gives directions quietly, saying only as much as he needs to, and they reach the little house on the edge of a town just as the sky starts to lighten.

It's not their most social or friendly of visits, but Ms. Maximoff seems too wrapped up in her worries over her children to notice, and Tony can't really blame her. The twins are precocious to the point of prodigy, their use of magic so instinctive and smooth Tony actually stops breathing for a moment, watching them. 

They've never seen anyone else use magic before, but they have no patience for levitation or repairing broken crockery or flashing lights, because apparently Wanda, at least, can already do those. It's the silly things from Steve's bag of tricks—color charms and tickling feathers, thimbles into match sticks and thread into flowers, that draw them in. They watch Tony bind their mother into the school _Fidellus_ with wide-eyed wonder and clutch at Steve's hands as their identities are woven into the secrets he's already keeping. 

They apparate back to the field north of the school just as the cockerels begin crowing and take the walk rather more quickly than Tony expected, with the twins practically dragging them along in their eagerness most of the way.

Steve laughs with them and Tony smiles and tries to let the wind unknot the tangle of misery and anger and remembered fear under his breastbone. 

By the time they reach the gates even Pietro is flagging, Wanda has stated she much prefers perching on Steve's shoulder to walking, and Tony has decided to be satisfied with what they _did_ accomplish. Miss Hill will not be hung this morning, and the Maximoff twins will take to magical education like fish to water. And if he still has plans to mete out justice to a certain preacher, he's pretty sure he can talk Steve around eventually. He just has to find something that _is_ the right way. 

They drop the twins off with Madame Jenkins and the rest of the younger set, and then it's just the two of them again, walking through the halls in silence. 

When they get to the stairwell where the paths to their rooms divide Steve stops, and Tony turns to face him.

“I really am sorry,” Steve says, shuffling his feet like he's fourteen again and can't find the words to ask Miss Carter to the Yule Ball. “I shouldn't have—” he shakes his head. “I mean, I won't—”

Tony sighs and rolls his eyes.

“You are the most irritating man in existence,” he says. He grabs Steve's collar in both hands and pulls him in to shut him up before he can make fools out of both of them any further. 

Steve clutches his shoulders, then lets go and his hands slide into Tony's hair instead as he kisses back, chasing Tony's lips and leaning in to him like he can somehow make up for the awkward silence and inability to form a complete sentence with other uses of his tongue. 

Tony's perfectly happy to let him continue in that line of thinking, really. Steve's lips through his beard are soft and pliant, and then his breath ghosts down Tony's neck, soon followed by the warm, wet lap of his tongue over Tony's pulse, and Tony tells himself he can't really be held responsible for the sound that makes its way out of his throat, even if it does make Steve bury his face in his neck and smile against his skin. 

“Does that mean I'm forgiven?” he asks, and Tony shivers with the movement of his lips.

“I've decided to let you make it up to me,” Tony tells him, like it's a magnanimous gesture instead of something he suddenly wants quite badly.

Steve stands straight and Tony tries not to whimper at the flow of air over the wets spots on his neck. 

“I can do that,” Steve says, and there's a mischievous gleam in his eyes, and too late Tony realizes he really should have set some parameters, laid down some guidelines—

“Don't you dare,” he says, trying to take a step back, “Don't—Rogers, you absolute _wanker—”_

But Steve's already picked him up and protests are useless. He's going wherever Steve's going, which appears to be his own bedroom. 

_Most irritating man alive_ , Tony repeats to himself.

“I will get you back for this,” he grumbles, poking at Steve's shoulder and chest. At least there aren't any students in the halls at this hour. 

Steve just grins at him.

“I'm looking forward to it,” he says, and yes, all right, fine. 

Tony's rather looking forward to it himself. 


End file.
